Best-Case Scenario
by Arkylie Killingstad
Summary: An explosion in a chemical lab has left Reese seriously wounded - and, at first, the team can't even communicate with him. Note: The physical damage is discussed, briefly, but not dwelt on; it's just the way to get to the drama of the scenario itself. So Reese is badly damaged, but I don't consider it gory.
1. Senseless

"Stay the hell away, Finch!" Shaw yelled. "Dammit, Fusco, hold him _down!_ "

As John struggled and howled, Harold backed off, heart pounding, trying not to come undone. John had taken a chemical blast right to the face, and Shaw was keeping Harold from getting a good look at how much damage had been done. If he were honest with himself, he appreciated the mercy: The almost inhuman cries of pain and terror were already more than he could bear.

He didn't stick around to see Shaw get the needle in.

* * *

"It's bad, Finch," Shaw said soberly, and Harold braced himself. "I'm worried about his eyes, but I _think_ we managed to flush out the chemicals before they could do permanent damage. It'll be weeks before we can find out for sure - and they gotta stay bandaged the whole time. Broken ribs, lacerations, and a fractured wrist. He's got nasty chemical burns on his hands, but they'll heal. If he wants to stay flexible, he's gonna need to stretch the new skin a lot while it's growing in. And the brain swelling wasn't as bad as we feared - another day or two and it should go down enough that we can take him home."

Harold nodded, trying to take it all in. Things could have gone so much worse - but now, for all the damage, all the recovery time ahead, it almost felt like he could breathe again.

"The thing is," Shaw continued, shaking her head, "he's been fighting us whenever the sedative wears off. Maybe we're not doing enough for the pain, or… he might think he's been captured."

"He doesn't realize we escaped?" Harold leaned to look around Shaw, but couldn't see John. "Is it the brain swelling? Hallucinations, or… maybe he can't think straight, can't remember?"

"Could be, but an explosion that close to him?" She sighed. "I think he's deaf. We've ruled out perforated eardrums; best-case scenario's a temporary threshold shift - might be gone in hours - or it could be a symptom of the brain swelling. But because of that-"

"-you can't tell him that he's safe," Harold finished, feeling the blood drain from his face. "…or that the blindness is temporary."

"If he stayed calm, we could start using Tap Code, but…." She gestured helplessly.

"Can I- is it safe to-"

"We've got him restrained. I wouldn't let you in before because he could have killed you. But now… you can give it a try. Any way you can - calm him down, comfort him… _do it_."

Harold nodded, and, taking a deep, shaky breath, stepped past her, bracing himself for the sight of his dearest friend in physical and mental anguish, strapped down in silent darkness.


	2. Restraint

John's hands were covered in gauze and tape, but his muscular arms were straining, twisting in the straps that bound him to the rails at wrist and elbow. The sheer number of straps made Harold's eyes go wide: A strap across the forehead, one across the shoulders; one that ran from the head of the bed down through his armpits and around his chest, balanced against the ankle straps pulled tight enough to almost keep him from bending his knees.

For all Shaw's medical training, she wasn't bound by hospital standards - and in the fight between safety and comfort, comfort was obviously down for the count. It was understandable, perhaps even necessary, given John's skill set; without it, Shaw likely wouldn't have let Harold even get near the man. Still, if the aim was to get John to relax, to perceive that he was out of danger, this kind of overkill was counterproductive at best.

Tentatively, Harold drew near the bed. Here was John, just a few feet away, and yet practically unreachable. Eyes still bandaged up, hearing gone - both conditions temporary, or so they hoped. But they left him in a realm bereft of sight or sound, a realm defined only by touch. And smell, though Harold couldn't think how to leverage that asset; they hadn't been back to their usual accommodations in days, and Harold wasn't even wearing his normal top-tier aftershave (and wasn't sure that John would necessarily pick up on it if he were).

But being denied his primary senses… Shaw hadn't thought to mention it, but Harold knew that the sensory deprivation could be making John hallucinate. Perhaps his struggles were against unrealities, thrown at him by his own mind. And even if he were still rational… how to use touch to get through to him? How to convince John that it was his friend in the room, and not his captor?

In the past three years, their shared ordeals had bonded them more closely than could ever be expressed in words - but in a way that rarely expressed itself in touch, either. Being men from a generation and culture that avoided physical affection, and given their level of professionalism and their individual hangups, it was hardly surprising that Harold had to stretch to recall even a handful of touch-related memories. First aid, obviously. John shoving him out of the way of an attack - causing a fall that briefly knocked him out and made him ache for days, but saved his life. That one time he'd been fitting John for a proper suit. John's hand pressed against his throat, the first day they'd met.

With that kind of background… would any sort of physical connection convey _Harold_ to John? Staring at John's muscles still straining against his bonds, testing them for weak points, Harold wondered if it was even possible to calm him down enough to communicate.

For far too long, he stood there debating whether to try a soft touch or a firm one - thinking only of the ways either one might be misperceived. Eventually, sick of his own stalling, he reached out and patted John firmly on a bare shoulder, exactly twice.

John stiffened and went rigidly still, as if every sense were on alert, waiting for more data.

On the same spot, Harold patted again, two times, then withdrew. John's tenseness remained; his breaths came fast, nearly panicked.

Some level of data needed to be conveyed. Harold used firm taps to give the first part of "Shave and a Haircut," and waited for a reply.

Despite his limited range of motion, John managed to strike a bandaged hand against the rail: two rough taps.

When Harold grabbed his hand - more out of impulse to prevent damage than anything else - John stilled, but his frame still lay tensely on the bed, and Harold couldn't blame him.

There were any number of messages Harold wanted to relay - everything from _the lab's destroyed_ to _please don't hurt yourself further_ to, of course, a full description of his injuries and the likelihood of recovery. But he had to prioritize.

He placed his palms gently on John's bare skin, upper arm and lower arm. Then he raised his fingers and, working from up to down so it would be more natural for John to "read," tapped from little finger on, four fingers on his right hand, and then, again from little finger on, three fingers on his left.

4-3. Then 1-1, 2-1, 1-5.

Because it was obvious which message had to be conveyed first:

S - A - F - E

There was a long moment wherein John's agitated breaths continued to fill the air between them with the sounds of distress, and Harold had to wonder if his message had gotten through. Was John even capable of picking it up? Did he understand it, but not believe it? Harold repeated the message, and then squeezed John's shoulder briefly.

The next instant, John's entire body relaxed into the bed, tension bleeding away before Harold's hand had even left his skin.


	3. Messages

With John at least more relaxed than he had been a moment ago, Harold stopped to consider how much information John could reasonably convey, given his bandaged hands. Establishing a way for John to reach out was obviously a necessary starting point. He returned his hands to John's shoulder, and felt John tense just slightly - listening, though not through his ears.

4-2, 1-1, 2-4, 4-3, 1-5. _Raise_.

R-I-G-H-T - H-A-N-D - F-O-R - Y-E-S

L-E-F-T - F-O-R - N-O

O-K

Wondering how to convey a question mark, he hesitated, but then John's right arm went as high as his bonds would allow. Harold sighed in relief and patted his shoulder again; John relaxed his arm.

I-S - P-A-I-N - B-A-D

John's left arm came up, and relaxed again after another pat: They had established the basics of communication. And, although Harold knew that John quite often hid the extent of his injuries, at least John found it bearable - no need for additional morphine, or whatever Shaw had him on.

D-E-A-F - L-I-K-E-L-Y - T-E-M-P-O-R-A-R-Y, Harold continued, and caught the sudden additional tension in John's body, which only faded once Harold had conveyed B-L-I-N-D - L-I-K-E-L-Y - T-E-M-P - T-O-O.

Of course. Because the follow-up to "Deafness likely temporary" could have easily been "Blindness permanent." Waiting for those few extra letters had surely been a torture all its own. Quickly, Harold completed the message with H-A-N-D-S - B-U-R-N-E-D - W-I-L-L - H-E-A-L.

It was at this point that John started to seem agitated, and banged his right hand against the rail several times. Harold caught his hands again; after John stilled, Harold tapped out G-E-N-T-L-Y, and took his hands away, squeezing John's shoulder again before simply watching him tap out his message, number by number, right hand then left hand, much as Harold had been doing:

4 right, 4 left - then 1-5, 1-1, 3-2 - 4-3, 1-1, 2-1, 1-5

 _Team safe_. Harold reached over and gently squeezed John's right wrist: _Yes_.

Then, the hands trembling a little as they tapped: 2-3, 1-1, 4-2, 3-4, 3-1, 1-4 - 4-3, 1-1, 2-1, 1-5

Stricken, Harold rushed to clasp John's wrist again: _Yes_. And then he brought his hands back to John's arm: I-M - H-E-R-E - J-O-H-N - I-M - F-I-N-E - E-V-E-R-Y-O-N-E - I-S - S-A-F-E

The breath that John let out was long and full and shaky, and he nodded quietly before his shoulders started to shake as well. And all Harold could do for him was to lay a hand on his shoulder with what he imagined was comfort, and to lean his forehead against John's upper arm.


End file.
